Fic: Power Trip Ballad
Title: Power Trip Ballad
Author: rainbombz
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Child abuse.
Length:
Spoilers:
Summary:
A/N: Songfic to Power Trip Ballad, by Maria Mena. I recommend listening to it, not because it will make understanding this fic any easier but because it's a fantastic song. Somewhat AU.
The way in which I fear is solely a reflection of you,
The devastating child of the powertrip you forced me through,
Rachel Berry can’t count how many times she’s been told that head cheerleader, Quinn Fabray, has the hots for her. It doesn’t come as much of a surprise, really. She’s seen the glances out of the corner of the blonde’s eye, even occasionally noticing that the other girl licks her lips while watching the diva sing a solo. It should be off-putting, but the brunette finds that it isn’t. It’s nice; flattering, she supposes.
Sometimes, she wants to ask the girl about it. Others, she wants to say damn it all and find out what those pouting pink lips she’s been dreaming about would feel like when melding perfectly with her own. Most of the time, she wants to stay the hell out of the Cheerio’s way.
Today, Rachel is working with the latter. Quinn tries to ask her something in Spanish, to borrow a pen she assumes, but before the cheerleader can even get a word out a tiny hand shoots up and its owner pleads with Mr Schuester to be allowed to use the little girl’s room. As she watches her go, Quinn’s eyebrows furrow until she finally slumps back into her seat behind the star’s with a sigh. Talk about mixed signals.
They’d been making so much headway recently. Every once in a while, Rachel would let Quinn walk her to class while the pair made casual small talk; tiny smiles in the hallway became more and more frequent as the school year went on; one would wave timidly as the other made their way into the choir room at three-thirty and, on very rare occasions, Rachel would tell their Glee coach to give the solo he wanted her to have to Quinn. Never Tina, or Mercedes, or Santana - Quinn. Then, after one or all of these events, the brunette would shut down - push her away.
At the end of Glee, Rachel attempts to sneak out of the door with the rest of the club only to have a pale white hand grasp her shoulder gently. Her flinch is subtle, but not enough so that the girl touching her fails to notice, and she’s pulling quickly out of Quinn’s grasp before spinning on her heel. As she speaks, she continues to walk backwards out the door, “Not now, Quinn, I’ve gotta go.” If the blonde had an argument, Rachel didn’t stick around long enough to hear it.
When she walks over the threshold of her house, the clock hanging in the entranceway has just ticked its way to four forty-five. She closes the door as quietly as she can, her footfalls as silent as they could possibly be in the Mary Janes clicking with every step on the tiled floor. The brunette starts when she finds one of her two fathers grinning down at her from the top of the stairs. “Hey, you’re a bit late aren’t you, sweetie?” Rachel trembles at the words, not looking anywhere but at her leather clad feet, and the black man’s smile falls slightly. When he realises that there is nothing the teenager has to say to him, he heaves a small sigh and brushes past her at the bottom of the stairs. The action causes her to jump back from him, and the man can’t help but feel the tiniest stab of hurt in his chest. Rachel had never accepted him. He supposed that was what happened when you broke up a nine-year-old’s parents.
But how could he leave you,
Could he fuck that whore he left you for?
As Sam Berry potters about the kitchen preparing dinner for his husband and step-child, he lets his mind drift back to the events of seven years ago. He had met the man who would become his husband, Frank, at work and god was he beautiful. At the time, his work had been at a small restaurant in downtown Lima that held a great deal of corporate dinners for small companies. Frank Berry was the CEO of Berry’s Garden Emporium, a tiny shop just off of the high street. When he shook hands with the chef in charge of the fabulous party he had had organised, sparks flew between both and Sam remembers both of their faces stretching into even wider grins at the contact. After all of the guests had left, the two had stayed behind and spoken for hours on end until both finally had to return home - Sam to his cat, Frank to his wife and daughter. Thus, the affair began.
Get revenge.
And by all means ask your nine-year-old daughter to choose between you, don't stay friends.
It was a month or two after their first clandestine meetings that Frank Berry finally told his wife that he was in love - and not with her. Sam hadn’t been present, but from the way his lover sobbed into his chest for hours on end following, he had been able to conclude that it hadn’t gone well. The cut on the older man’s forehead suggested that the exchange had gotten violent - Frank insisted he had fallen down the stairs on his way out. Sam could do nothing but take his words at face value, and wipe away the tears until they finally ceased flowing. It was three months after that Sam finally met the beautiful daughter that he'd been told so much about. When the gaunt, broken girl appeared on his doorstep, he couldn't help but feel he had been cheated. Yes, she was beautiful but, even without words, he could tell she was faulty.
Author: rainbombz
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Child abuse.
Length:
Spoilers:
Summary:
A/N: Songfic to Power Trip Ballad, by Maria Mena. I recommend listening to it, not because it will make understanding this fic any easier but because it's a fantastic song. Somewhat AU.
The way in which I fear is solely a reflection of you,
The devastating child of the powertrip you forced me through,
Rachel Berry can’t count how many times she’s been told that head cheerleader, Quinn Fabray, has the hots for her. It doesn’t come as much of a surprise, really. She’s seen the glances out of the corner of the blonde’s eye, even occasionally noticing that the other girl licks her lips while watching the diva sing a solo. It should be off-putting, but the brunette finds that it isn’t. It’s nice; flattering, she supposes.
Sometimes, she wants to ask the girl about it. Others, she wants to say damn it all and find out what those pouting pink lips she’s been dreaming about would feel like when melding perfectly with her own. Most of the time, she wants to stay the hell out of the Cheerio’s way.
Today, Rachel is working with the latter. Quinn tries to ask her something in Spanish, to borrow a pen she assumes, but before the cheerleader can even get a word out a tiny hand shoots up and its owner pleads with Mr Schuester to be allowed to use the little girl’s room. As she watches her go, Quinn’s eyebrows furrow until she finally slumps back into her seat behind the star’s with a sigh. Talk about mixed signals.
They’d been making so much headway recently. Every once in a while, Rachel would let Quinn walk her to class while the pair made casual small talk; tiny smiles in the hallway became more and more frequent as the school year went on; one would wave timidly as the other made their way into the choir room at three-thirty and, on very rare occasions, Rachel would tell their Glee coach to give the solo he wanted her to have to Quinn. Never Tina, or Mercedes, or Santana - Quinn. Then, after one or all of these events, the brunette would shut down - push her away.
At the end of Glee, Rachel attempts to sneak out of the door with the rest of the club only to have a pale white hand grasp her shoulder gently. Her flinch is subtle, but not enough so that the girl touching her fails to notice, and she’s pulling quickly out of Quinn’s grasp before spinning on her heel. As she speaks, she continues to walk backwards out the door, “Not now, Quinn, I’ve gotta go.” If the blonde had an argument, Rachel didn’t stick around long enough to hear it.
When she walks over the threshold of her house, the clock hanging in the entranceway has just ticked its way to four forty-five. She closes the door as quietly as she can, her footfalls as silent as they could possibly be in the Mary Janes clicking with every step on the tiled floor. The brunette starts when she finds one of her two fathers grinning down at her from the top of the stairs. “Hey, you’re a bit late aren’t you, sweetie?” Rachel trembles at the words, not looking anywhere but at her leather clad feet, and the black man’s smile falls slightly. When he realises that there is nothing the teenager has to say to him, he heaves a small sigh and brushes past her at the bottom of the stairs. The action causes her to jump back from him, and the man can’t help but feel the tiniest stab of hurt in his chest. Rachel had never accepted him. He supposed that was what happened when you broke up a nine-year-old’s parents.
But how could he leave you,
Could he fuck that whore he left you for?
As Sam Berry potters about the kitchen preparing dinner for his husband and step-child, he lets his mind drift back to the events of seven years ago. He had met the man who would become his husband, Frank, at work and god was he beautiful. At the time, his work had been at a small restaurant in downtown Lima that held a great deal of corporate dinners for small companies. Frank Berry was the CEO of Berry’s Garden Emporium, a tiny shop just off of the high street. When he shook hands with the chef in charge of the fabulous party he had had organised, sparks flew between both and Sam remembers both of their faces stretching into even wider grins at the contact. After all of the guests had left, the two had stayed behind and spoken for hours on end until both finally had to return home - Sam to his cat, Frank to his wife and daughter. Thus, the affair began.
Get revenge.
And by all means ask your nine-year-old daughter to choose between you, don't stay friends.
It was a month or two after their first clandestine meetings that Frank Berry finally told his wife that he was in love - and not with her. Sam hadn’t been present, but from the way his lover sobbed into his chest for hours on end following, he had been able to conclude that it hadn’t gone well. The cut on the older man’s forehead suggested that the exchange had gotten violent - Frank insisted he had fallen down the stairs on his way out. Sam could do nothing but take his words at face value, and wipe away the tears until they finally ceased flowing. It was three months after that Sam finally met the beautiful daughter that he'd been told so much about. When the gaunt, broken girl appeared on his doorstep, he couldn't help but feel he had been cheated. Yes, she was beautiful but, even without words, he could tell she was faulty.